


Burning Forever

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Major Character Death, M/M, Mild Language, Remix, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: “I made you a promise," he says, like that explains everything.





	Burning Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Persistence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494582) by [Sibilant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant). 



It's the briefcase that catches Eames' eye. Silver and tauntingly shiny on a street where everything else is dusty and dull. Eames watches from his perch on the rooftop, eyes caught in the way the case reflects the sun.

 _I know that,_ he thinks.

His gaze wanders, and he soaks in the face of the man carrying the briefcase. Young, younger than Eames, but tense and worn. He's dressed too nicely to be from the neighborhood, and really, nobody with half a brain walks around that slowly with something that shiny unless they can fight off anyone who wants to take it.

The man strides down the street and turns into a dark alley. It's like every low-budget spy movie, and Eames knows better than to follow him down there. But the case gnaws at him with its obnoxious sheen, so he scurries over the rooftops and peers down from the edge.

"Eames," the man says quietly.

Eames freezes, but the man isn't looking at him.

"I have a business proposition for you." The man slowly reaches into his jacket. Eames tenses, feels the muscles in his legs coil, ready to run, but all the man pulls out is a single envelope. "Forty thousand dollars. Cash. I just need you to do one little thing for me."

If a mysterious, well-dressed American man appears in your territory, knows your name, and offers you a substantial amount of cash dollars to do an unnamed task, the job is likely dangerous, illegal, or both. Eames knows this, but he can't help but imagine—the things he could do with forty thousand dollars. Buy better shoes, for one, so his feet don't get so damn wet every time it rains.

The man doesn't look around, even though he clearly knows Eames is there. "I'll leave it here for you," he says, placing the envelope on the soggy ground. Eames hopes that envelope is water sealed, but he's already calling the guy a bastard on the assumption it isn't. "My card is inside. Contact me if you're interested."

The man picks up his shiny briefcase and walks out of the alley just as slowly as he came in. Eames waits another handful of minutes before scurrying down from the roof. The envelope is plastic, shockingly, and Eames finds twenty thousand dollars neatly stacked inside, along with a simple business card that reads, _Arthur Lake,_ with a phone number.

 _Half now, half later,_ Eames thinks, rifling through the crisp bills. If the man can so carelessly leave twenty thousand dollars lying in the street, that means he's definitely involved in something dangerous, illegal, or both.

Eames flicks the card against his thumb and pockets the money. First, some dry shoes. He'll deal with the rest later.

*

He tells himself he's not going to call. Not for the money, not for the briefcase. But his feet are cozy and warm inside his brand-new boots, and the rest of him is sheltered under his warm jacket that probably still has a tag hanging on it somewhere, and he thinks about how nice it is to have some actual money to spend—and to have a project to focus on.

He calls the man from a phone booth two hours' walk away from his territory. The line barely rings.

"Hello," the man says.

Eames hesitates. "It's Eames."

"Hello," the man repeats, but then he adds, "My name is Arthur. I'm looking for a forger."

Eames digests that. "How'd you find me?"

"That's the wrong question," Arthur informs him. "You should be asking me what the job is."

Eames scowls at the phone. "You already told me—you said you need a forger. So how did you find me?"

There's silence on the other end of the line. Then Arthur says, "It's my job to track down things that don't want to be found."

To Eames, that screams government. CIA, maybe. Or FBI. He thinks about that and decides he doesn't care. "Alright, whatever. What papers do you need from me?"

"It's not a paper," Arthur says. "It's a person."

"A person," Eames repeats.

"I've heard you're the best at what you do," Arthur says, like that explains everything. "I need you to forge a person for me. Meet me at the same alley tomorrow at noon if you're interested." And then he hangs up.

Eames stays inside the booth for a while, phone pressed to his ear until he can't stand listening to the dial tone any longer. He collects his change, pulls his hood over his head, and starts the long walk back home, his mind picking through the little pieces of information he's been given so far.

He keeps thinking of the silver briefcase, so shiny it was almost mocking him, screaming for attention.

He meets Arthur at noon.

Arthur is dressed just as nicely as before, and he has the case in his hands. "It's nice to meet you, Eames," he offers without shaking his hand. "Follow me."

He leads Eames down the street and into the newer section of the neighborhood and then, amazingly, marches up the steps of the most expensive hotel on the continent. Eames follows, aware of the squeal of his new shoes against the polished marble floors.

Arthur books a room right in front of him and offers Eames the key, but Eames lets Arthur unlock the door first. Just in case.

Arthur sets the briefcase down at his feet. "You can shower if you want," he offers, almost gracious.

Eames sits in the chair across from him. "Tell me about this job first. You want me to a forge a person? How am I supposed to do that?"

Arthur's lips curl for a second, brief enough to make Eames wonder if he dreamt it. "You know how." One hand drifts slowly down to rest on top of the silver briefcase. "I know you were SAS, and you were involved with the Project. Just like I know you went AWOL because your best friend killed himself after one of your 'test missions'. And I know you've been living on the streets of London for four years because you needed to stay under the radar but couldn't bear to leave good ol' England."

Eames' eyes narrow. "Fuck you," he says.

Arthur blinks placidly. "How'd I do?"

Instead of answering, Eames clenches his jaw. "It was wrong," he says eventually. "What they were doing."

"I know," Arthur says. "I was there, too. And I've been looking for you ever since you left."

That catches Eames' attention. "Why?"

Arthur meets his eye. "Because you're the best at what you do. And you're the only one who can do it." He reaches down and slides the briefcase closer, unlocking it and flipping it open. He pulls out a folder then locks the case again. "I need you to forge him."

Eames takes the folder and glances at the photos inside. "What is it, psychological torture?" The words come out bitter. "Woman gets beaten by her own husband until she spills all her secrets?"

"It's different now," Arthur says. "There's an underground community. We use tricks to find out information." He nods at the photos in Eames' hands. "Woman tells her husband about her new job as they're getting ready for bed. You weren't the only one who didn't like what the military was doing, Eames," he adds. "But you were the first one to speak up."

Eames sighs and flips the folder closed. He knows Arthur could very easily be lying to him, but there's an ache in his bones, a loss. He hasn't dreamt in four years. "Alright," he says. "I'll take the job."

Arthur smiles. "Our plane leaves tonight."

*

Arthur was right—it's different now. Eames expects sterile walls, lab technicians in masks, beeping machinery everywhere. But instead Arthur leads him to a small cottage on the shore with lace curtains. Inside are a man and woman.

"Cobb," Arthur calls as they enter the room, "this is Eames. Eames, this is Dom Cobb."

Dom shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you. I’m the extractor."

"And this is his wife, Mal,” Arthur says. “She's our architect."

Eames turns his attention to her, watches her willowy form rise from the chair. "Bonjour," Mal says, eyes sparkling. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Eames takes her hand and bows over it like it's royalty. "No, my dear, the pleasure's all mine."

Dom clears his throat and nudges Mal aside. "Arthur's briefed you on the job?"

Eames pauses for a moment to redirect his attention from Mal back to Dom, but in that split second, Dom has already turned on Arthur. "What have you been doing, talking about your favorite Disney movies?" 

Arthur's eyes narrow. "I got him here. You're the one who picked the job, so you can tell him all about it." He turns, kisses Mal on the cheek, and stalks out of the room. His suitcase is still inside the door.

Dom sighs and turns to Eames. "Alright, come on. I'll get you caught up."

*

It's simple, according to Dom. Eames just has to go under with the mark, pretend to be his brother, and find out the combination to his personal safe.

"That's all," Dom says, spreading his hands grandly over the folders of information lying open on the table. "Easy as pie."

Eames bristles. "If it were that easy, everyone would be able to do it."

Dom frowns, but Mal cuts him off before he can say anything. "He means it's not a complicated task. We only need the combination, not the location of the safe or his twenty-page plan for expansion, _non_?"

Arthur walks into the room and unceremoniously drops several papers on the table before stalking back out. He grabs his suitcase as he leaves this time.

Dom catches Eames watching him leave. "Don't worry," Dom says. "He'll get over it in a couple of days. I got him from the military, so he's used to someone barking orders at him."

Eames doesn't say anything.

"Come on," Dom says. He stands and pulls a case out from his desk drawer, shiny and silver just like Arthur's. Eames can't help but remember the last time he saw these cases, scattered across the floor of a military lab in the chaos as they tried to calm down Vincent. Eames blinks and sees the blood spatter, hears the gunshot echo through the room. Dom speaks again, pulling Eames back. "Show me what you can do." He's holding out a cannula.

Eames takes it and slides the needle under his skin, eyes still glancing back to the doorway. He wants, inexplicably, for Arthur to see this first. To understand what he can do.

"Ready?" Dom calls. There's the hiss of the PASIV, and Eames closes his eyes and lets sleep drag him under.

*

His eyes open to a small, white room. Dom is staring at him. "I didn't want to build anything complicated," he says. "We can show you the dreamscape later."

Eames knows Dom doesn't want him to know the layout until he's been deemed _trustworthy._ He doesn't bother to say anything.

"Hard to forge without a mirror," he comments, completing a lap around the sparse room.

Dom squints. "A mirror?"

Eames nods. "One of those prissy tri-fold ones the ladies like to use. I need the reflections to bounce off each other."

"A mirror?" Dom repeats.

"Yes." Eames pulls out the gun that's tucked in his waistband and raises it to his head.

"Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing?" Dom demands, eyes wide.

"Waking up," Eames says, and he pulls the trigger.

Arthur is standing next to the PASIV when he opens his eyes. "Back so soon?" he asks Eames without looking up from the papers in his hands.

"Dom didn't get me a mirror," Eames says. "Need to start over."

Arthur hums.

"He's civilian," Eames adds. Arthur doesn't react. "He's so bloody civilian, he didn't know why I was pulling out a gun to wake up. He's a bloody _professor,_ and you're letting him boss you around?"

Arthur raises his eyes, and the look in them is enough to make Eames pause. "What I do is none of your concern, Mister Eames," Arthur says. He glances to the side just as Dom starts to wake up. His lips thin and he gathers his papers and leaves the room just as Dom's eyes flicker open.

"Wait," Dom says, voice hoarse. "You shot yourself to wake up early?"

Eames sighs, eyes fixated on the open doorway. "How many dreamshare jobs have you done, and you didn't know about this?"

Dom sits up. "Tons," he says. "But none of them have been extractions before." At Eames' look, he explains, "Mal and I do research on dreams. We're spectators. We just watch what people dream about and relate it to their real-life concerns or problems."

Eames rolls his eyes. "Well," he says. "If you're going to switch to extractions, you need to know how to wake yourself up if something goes wrong." He holds his fingers to his temple and pulls the imaginary trigger. "Now, do you want to see me forge or not?"

Dom nods and lays back down. "Yeah, yeah," he says. "I'll remember the mirror this time."

He does, and Eames fiddles with the folded sides until the reflections catch on each other, sending copies of him through the glass. The light catches on one, and half of his reflections have been replaced by Arthur with his pristine suits and slicked back hair and annoyed scowl. He turns to face Dom, hands clutching a silver briefcase.

"Wow," Dom says, eyes wide. "Can you talk like him, too?"

Eames glowers some more then says, "I got the research you wanted, Cobb. I'm heading to London to pick up that forger."

Cobb nods, and the look in his eyes has grown hungrier, wilder. "This is amazing. There is so much our subconscious can do, and it's just…sitting here, _waiting_ for us to tap into it."

Eames lets his forge fall and says, "Don't fuck with dreams. It never ends well."

Dom doesn't hear him. He scurries over to the mirror and stares at his own reflections. "How do you do it? Teach me. I want to know everything there is to know."

Eames shakes his head. "Time's up," he says, and he wakes them up.

*

It takes a while, but Eames manages to find Arthur's hideaway before dinner. He's tucked himself in a small bedroom that's been rearranged into an office, with folders and computer monitors covering every inch of desk space. He glances up as Eames walks in. "What is it?"

Eames perches himself on the edge of the desk Arthur's sitting behind, plastering on his sweetest smile. "Why are you working with the Cobbs?"

Arthur returns his smile. "That's none of your business." He reaches out and shoves Eames off the desk, stronger than Eames had expected.

Eames stands instead, close enough that Arthur has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. "They're not worth your time. And that Dom Cobb is a fucking menace, he's like every mad scientist they ever had at the Project. He's going to dream himself into insanity."

Arthur shrugs. "Not my problem."

"I think it is," Eames argues. "I think you owe them something, or else you wouldn't be working with them on this stupid job." He gestures at the reams of paper and the files displayed on every screen. "You're so bloody thorough, I know you've written every file Dom showed me today. You're one of the best, so why else would you be wasting your time with them?"

"You're wrong," Arthur says. He meets Eames' stare. "I'm not one of the best—I _am_ the best."

Eames snorts before he can stop himself. "Humility suits you, darling."

Arthur's eyes narrow and he abruptly sits upright, turning back to his work. "Did you actually need something, Mister Eames, or are you just here to bother me?"

"Oh, darling," Eames responds, purposefully lingering over _darling._ "What if I just wanted the sweet pleasure of your company?"

Arthur arches a brow. "Get out."

Eames leaves, smirking.

*

He sits with Mal the next day, and she explains her thought process behind the design for the dream. Eames can't help but adore her enthusiasm. She has an instinct for dreamshare that's awe-inspiring, but she also shares her husband's wild-eyed fanaticism for unlocking its secrets, and her questions poke a bit too accurately at Eames' sore spots.

"What about another level?" she asks, propping her head on her hand.

Eames frowns. "What do you mean?"

Mal shrugs elegantly. "A dream within a dream. Can it be done?"

Memories flash through Eames' head, sharp and painful. He stands. "I wouldn't play with this, Mal," he says. "It's dangerous."

Mal watches him, eyes dark. She doesn't try to stop him as he leaves the room.

*

Eames focuses on following his mark, memorizing the man's speech and mannerisms. He consults with Arthur every evening, sharing notes and cross-referencing observations. They talk late into the night, arguing over extraction methods, tea and coffee, chips or crisps. Eames starts to look forward to their discussions, those private moments without Dom being an asshole or Mal asking about dreaming.

It's peaceful, in its own way.

"Pineapple on pizza," Arthur demands. "Yes or no."

"Pineapple?" Eames asks, leaning back in his chair. And it really is his chair—it appeared in Arthur's office after their third late-night discussion where Eames had to sit on the floor or risk disrupting Arthur's careful organization system. "I like pineapple, I like pizza, so I think I'd probably like them together."

Arthur looks scandalized. "You heathen," he says, mouth ever-so-slightly curling. Eames has learned to look for that now, and he treasures every almost-smile he can earn.

"Mal was asking me about multiple levels in a dream again," Eames blurts, unsurprised when Arthur's almost-smile vanishes.

"Can we not talk about them for once?" Arthur closes his eyes with a sigh.

Eames is tempted to poke at that wound again and say Arthur's the one who chose to work with them, but he stops himself. "I just think it's concerning, that's all. The military had dreamshare for at least a year before it started thinking that way. The Cobbs have had it for how long? A couple months?"

Arthur rubs his forehead. "They better not start experimenting, I swear to god."

"How many levels did you manage?" Eames asks.

"Two," Arthur says. "Well. Three, technically. But it was too unstable, the dreams collapsed in seconds. And one of our guys didn't wake up."

Eames frowns. "Why?"

Arthur shrugs. "He must have gotten trapped down there. Who knows how slow time passes once you're that deep? Maybe there's some dead zone, and you're stuck there forever."

Eames smirks. "Imagine if it was like a dream heaven or hell? And everyone who got trapped in a dream ended up in the same place? You could be some sort of dreamshare god of the underworld down there."

Arthur smiles. "Dreamshare bogeyman," he suggests, sipping his coffee. "People will say shit like, 'Don't go down three levels, or you'll get stuck with Arthur. He'll bore you to death with research and spreadsheets.'"

Eames laughs softly. "Somehow I doubt it's the research and spreadsheets that got you your title of _best_ point man in the world."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Whatever." He straightens in his seat and takes another sip of coffee. "Okay, what else do we need to do about the brother?"

*

The job goes well, and it's just as straightforward as Dom had said it would be, thanks to Arthur's obsessive research and planning. They send the safe's combination to their employer, and Arthur hands Eames another envelope identical to the one he had left in the street.

"I’ve enjoyed working with you," he says. "If you want to stay with this, I can give you a couple names."

Eames smiles. "I'll think about it.” He takes the money, says goodbye to the Cobbs, and hops on a plane.

He touches down in Amsterdam to meet up with a chemist named Daliah who, he's heard, sells the compounds they need to dream.

He can't say he's surprised to find Arthur sitting there when he arrives.

"Is that a yes to dreamshare?" Arthur asks, brow raised, lips curled in that gorgeous half-smile.

"Yes," Eames says, grinning. "For you, darling, anything."

*

They fly around the world, taking jobs as they hear about them. Eames falls in love with the thrill of extraction, of working a job and knowing Arthur's at his side, watching his back.

"Look at us, darling," Eames says during one of their late-night discussions as they're laying low after another job. "You know what they're going to be saying in a few years? _Arthur and Eames, best team in the industry._ ” He glances at Arthur. “Why are you laughing?"

Arthur shakes his head. "It's just…you. How can you be like this?"

"Like what?" Eames asks, smiling, caught in the light of Arthur’s gaze.

"You see a future," Arthur says simply.

Eames pauses. "You don't?"

Arthur shrugs. "It's not something I like to think about. Bad luck, you know?"

"No, I don't know," Eames says, frowning.

"It's just a thing," Arthur says dismissively. "Some soldiers don't like to promise they're coming home alive, because it would be bad luck. We always prepare for the worst—death—and that way we aren't disappointed the day we do die." He shrugs again. "It's just a thing," he repeats.

Eames stands and walks over to Arthur's chair. He places his hands on Arthur's shoulders, ignoring how they tense underneath him, wary. "Darling," he says, "we've been working together for six months, so I think it's time we make a deal, you and I.”

Arthur frowns at him. "What's this about, Eames?"

"Just trust me, okay?" Eames asks. "I've seen plenty of guys get caught up in the past. I don't want that to happen to us. So, let's promise that we'll always focus on the future and never look back." 

_Focus on us,_ he thinks. _Not the military, or the Cobbs, or every job that hasn't gone perfectly. Focus on me._

Arthur pauses, staring at Eames like he's looking for something. "Okay," he says, nodding. "Deal."

Eames smiles. "Good. Now, where would you like to travel next?"

"Well, I haven't been to Capri in a while," Arthur says, lips curled.

Eames laughs. "I'll pack our things."

As he's walking away, Arthur's phone starts to ring, loud and shrill. "What?" Arthur mutters as he answers the call. "What is it? Dom? What are you—slow down, slow down. What are you saying?"

By the time Eames has come back, bags packed, Arthur's off the phone. There's silence for a moment before Arthur says, "I can't go to Capri. I have to meet Dom in Frankfurt."

Eames frowns. "Alright, I can book us the tickets now—"

"No." Arthur fidgets. "I'm going alone."

That stops Eames short. "You're _what?_ "

Arthur sighs. "It's going to be dangerous. I don't want us both to be at risk. Go somewhere else, lay low. I'll meet up with you in a month or two."

"Fuck that," Eames says, "I'm coming with you."

"No," Arthur says. "You're not."

*

Eames doesn't go with Arthur. He flies to Mombasa and distracts himself with alcohol and gambling and curses the universe for hating him. Because why else would Arthur knock Eames out and tie him up in the fucking hotel room so he could meet Dom the fucking Cobb in fucking Frankfurt?

He gets an email from Arthur a couple months later. _Job done. See you soon._

But in the end, it isn't Arthur who comes for him. It's Dom.

*

He flies straight to Australia from Mombasa to work on Peter Browning. He tells himself it's for efficiency, but by the time he makes it back to Paris and walks into the warehouse following the sound of Arthur's voice, he realizes it was also to punish Arthur, just a little, for sending him away.

They were supposed to become the best team in the industry.

Arthur seems to notice Eames' annoyance, and they waste the job snapping at each other instead of talking about anything. Every night, Eames goes back to the hotel and wonders if Arthur's still working in his room down the hall.

He imagines himself knocking on Arthur's door. What would he say? Mint and chocolate or peanut butter and chocolate? America or Paris? Me or Dom Cobb?

He doesn't knock on Arthur's door.

But Arthur surprises him by knocking on Eames' door instead.

*

"I'm sorry," he says, the minute Eames opens the door. "I know it was shitty of me to—"

"To knock me out and tie me up in the hotel room so you could run away with Dom the fucking Cobb?" Eames finishes. "Yeah, I'd definitely call that a dick move, Arthur."

Arthur sighs. "You gonna let me in?"

Eames steps aside.

"It's just this job," Arthur says. "I'm done with him after this."

Eames nods slowly. "Sure you are."

"I am," Arthur says.

"Where's Mal?" Eames asks. "She keeping him on a longer leash these days?"

Arthur turns to him. "Mal's dead, Eames. That's why Cobb can't go home. They think he killed her."

Eames digests that. "They went too deep," he says, instead of thinking about Mal's willowy looks and soft smile.

"I think so," Arthur says. "She jumped off a building. Told Cobb they were dreaming, and their real children were waiting for them topside."

"Bloody hell," Eames breathes.

"Cobb has a projection of her in his subconscious." Arthur grits his teeth. "She shot out my kneecap."

"Bloody fucking hell!" Eames shouts. "Arthur. That's not—why—you—"

Arthur's mouth twists, bitter and hurt. "Yeah. Like I said: I'm done with him after this."

Eames nods slowly. "Um. Do you want to sit down?"

Arthur snorts and sits on the floor. Eames joins him, and they lounge in silence for a moment.

"So," Eames says into the quiet. "Mint and chocolate or peanut butter and chocolate?"

Arthur hums, tension sliding from his shoulders. "Mint and chocolate."

"You heathen," Eames murmurs.

"Says the man who likes pineapple on his pizza," Arthur retorts.

"Yes, but I know better than to eat mint and chocolate."

"You're missing out," Arthur says.

"You are an odd, ridiculous man," Eames blurts.

Arthur turns to him and smiles. "French fries and ice cream?" he asks after a moment.

They argue about French fries and ice cream until the sun starts to rise, trying to ignore the enormous army of elephants in the room. Arthur sprawls across the floor, arms stretched so far they haphazardly brush against Eames' legs.

Then, Saito knocks on the door and all the tension returns.

"It's time," Saito says, apparently unsurprised when Arthur opens Eames' door. "Maurice Fischer died this morning. We need to move."

Arthur turns back to Eames, eyes dark. "I'll get everyone organized here," Eames says. "You check the warehouse. I'll meet you at the airport."

Arthur nods and starts to leave but Eames reaches out for his arm. "Focus on the future, darling," he murmurs. "Remember?"

Arthur smiles, barely. "You owe me a trip to Capri."

Eames smiles back.

*

They go to Capri after the job is over and lounge in the sun.

"I needed this," Arthur says, stretching. "Thanks." He coughs for a second and grabs his water.

Eames glances at him. "I've heard that cough a couple times since we got here."

Arthur shrugs. "Must be the weather. Or allergies."

"You're allergic to the sun," Eames says. "That is clearly the explanation."

Arthur laughs, and it turns into another brief coughing fit. "Maybe I inhaled some sand from this frigging beach. Why do people always act like lying on the sand is comfortable?"

Eames smiles and tries not to obsess, but by the end of the week it's turned into a thicker, hacking cough and Eames says, "Arthur, maybe you should go see someone."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm not getting sick during my first vacation in years, okay? It's against the rules."

Eames sighs but decides not to argue. Arthur ends their vacation one week later by accepting a job back in the States.

*

Alaska is fucking _freezing,_ and Eames hates it. Arthur's cough seems to hate it, too, based on what Eames can hear.

"Please talk to someone?" Eames says as they're at the baggage claim. "That doesn't sound good at all."

Arthur shakes his head. "It'll go away soon. It's fine."

"You know, mind over matter isn't actually a thing," Eames informs him. Arthur doesn't react.

They meet their chemist, Sofia, at the hotel and set up camp in the suite Arthur booked. "Pretty straightforward," Arthur says in the debrief, clearing his throat. "Husband thinks his wife is unfaithful. Evidence seems to strongly suggest this is true, but he wanted us to make sure."

He pauses again to cough. Sofia frowns. "Are you feeling okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," Arthur manages. "Just a tickle."

She nods slowly. "Well, I don't know how Somnacin is going to react with someone sick."

"I'm not sick," Arthur says with a sigh. "I just picked it up a couple weeks ago, it'll be gone soon."

"Coughs aren't supposed to last that long," Sofia says.

Arthur waves a hand and flips through his moleskine. "The wife books the same hotel room once every two weeks. I think we should use that room for the dream. Eames can forge the guy she's having the affair with."

Sofia sighs loudly but lets Arthur change the subject. Later, she pulls Eames aside and says, "You need to get him to a doctor. I don't want to risk anything."

Eames snorts. "If you can get him there, I'll hold him down during the check-up. I think we have a forty percent chance of actually surviving the whole thing."

She sighs. "Fine, fine. But I warned you."

Eames nods. "Duly noted and appreciated."

She rolls her eyes and walks away. "Idiots," Eames hears her say.

One week later, as Eames runs into the nearest hospital with Arthur bundled in his arms, he thinks, _Idiots. We were idiots._

*

It's pneumonia, the doctor says. Fluid has gotten into Arthur's lungs, and there's some other line about things getting into the bloodstream and maybe organ failure, but Eames' head has begun to swim by then, so he doesn't quite catch it all. Oh, and Arthur's visibly over-exhausted and needs more sleep, by the way.

"Has he experienced chills lately?" the doctor asks. "Fever?"

Eames shrugs helplessly. "I—I don't know. He doesn't really share much." He scoffs at the ridiculousness of that statement. "He's private. He probably had a fever this entire week, and he never would've told me."

The doctor nods. "Well, he has a fever now, and based on his other symptoms, I would say he's been febrile for a while. This should have been addressed much earlier."

Eames sighs. "I tried to get him to go to a doctor," he says, but the words come out weak. Could have, should have. It doesn't matter now.

"Can I see him?" Eames asks.

"Yes," the doctor says. "Of course. Just try to make sure he stays calm."

"Sure," Eames says.

*

Arthur is notably the opposite of calm when Eames walks in the room.

"Finally," he says. "Get me the fuck out of here." He stops and coughs so much Eames is waiting for him to cough up a damn lung.

"Fat chance, darling," Eames says when Arthur's done. "Doc says you've got fluid in your lungs, you're over-exhausted, and you need to fucking sleep. So we're going to keep you here until you get un-exhausted, and until your fluid and pneumonia shit get handled."

Arthur stares at him. " _Un-exhausted,_ did you really just say that?"

"Fuck off." Eames pulls one of the chairs closer to Arthur's bedside. "By the way, I'm waiting for Sofia to send us an email that says, _I told you so._ Because she did say you needed to see someone."

"I'm not a little kid, Eames," Arthur mutters. "I can take care of myself."

"Clearly," Eames says.

Arthur glares at him.

"Just get some sleep, okay?" Eames pulls out the book he brought with him and opens to page one.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asks.

"Reading," Eames says.

"Why?"

Eames glances at him. "Because I know you don't sleep in unfamiliar places. So I'm going to sit here until you get enough sleep to make me happy. So go to sleep, darling."

Arthur huffs and sulkily rearranges the bedsheets. Eames ignores him and concentrates on his book, which he nicked from some man sleeping on the sidewalk outside. It isn't bad, considering.

By the time a nurse pops in to tell him visiting hours are over, Arthur's been asleep for four hours.

*

Arthur convalesces in the hospital for a week, which genuinely impresses Eames. He thought Arthur would be climbing the walls by the end of day one.

But one week later, nothing has really changed about his condition, and Arthur's going stir crazy.

"You need to get me out of here," he says when Eames arrives that morning. "I haven't gotten any worse, and at this rate I'm just gonna catch something from someone else in this wing."

That is a very persuasive argument for Eames, and he goes to find the doctor. He promises to keep Arthur safe and cozy and takes the prescription and goes back to Arthur's room to break him out of jail.

Eames is ready to book them a hotel room, but Arthur insists they fly to New York and curl up at Arthur's favorite apartment. They land seven hours later, and Eames herds Arthur into the apartment and sets him up on the couch. He runs out to fill the prescription and stock up on some food, then returns, half-expecting Arthur to already be on his laptop booking them a flight to their next job.

Arthur is sitting right where Eames left him, watching a B-movie on TV.

"Is that an enormous spider?" Eames asks.

Arthur hums.

Eames brings him a pill and a large glass of milk. Arthur stares at it. "Seriously?"

"To coat your stomach," Eames says.

"I didn't actually want you to nurse me back to health, you know," Arthur says, but he takes the pill and drinks the milk.

Eames sits on the couch next to him, and they watch the movie together. Arthur falls asleep on the couch, and Eames loses time watching him sleep, quiet and still. He puts a blanket over Arthur, one of those incredibly soft ones that Arthur treasures more than anything else in the world, and leaves him to sleep.

*

Arthur isn't getting better. The cough doesn't go away, and Arthur spends most of his time curled up in a blanket, wandering around the apartment.

"We can't be the world's greatest extraction team anymore," Eames tells him one afternoon.

Arthur looks at him distantly. "Sorry," he says.

"Why?" Eames asks. "It doesn't matter. I figured out what else we can do—we can militarize people."

Arthur snorts, coughs. "You want us to do militarizations? Why?"

"Why not?” Eames retorts. "We would certainly be the best at it. Between you and me, we could make any mind extraction-proof."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Okay, fine. We'll take a militarization job as soon as I get better."

"Goodness me," Eames says, gasping in mock surprise. "Do I hear Arthur talking about the future? I thought it was bad luck."

Arthur smiles, and it's a full smile, not one of those secretive, hidden ones he used to wear. "I made you a promise," he says, like that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

*

"I have an idea," Arthur says one afternoon. He's gotten worse; he can't even sleep through the night without waking up coughing, and he probably-definitely has a fever, but he won't let Eames check.

"Does it involve me taking you back to a medical professional?" Eames asks.

Arthur sighs. "No. Just leave it, Eames. I don't care."

There are many things Eames could say in response to that, ranging from, _Fuck you, I'm taking you anyway_ to, _But I care._ He says nothing.

"Anyway," Arthur says. "My idea's about your militarization career."

"Our career," Eames says.

Arthur ignores him. "You should militarize everyone with projections of me."

Eames stares at him. "I should _what?_ "

"So I can be the bogeyman of illegal dreamshare," Arthur explains with a grin. "'Don't extract from that guy,' they’re gonna say. 'He's got a militarized projection of Arthur guarding his mind."

Eames smiles, remembering the conversation Arthur's referencing. "I told you you'd be famous for more than your research and spreadsheets."

"It would be the ultimate irony," Arthur says. "An ex-military brat created by the Project itself guarding everyone's minds against extraction."

He starts laughing as he speaks, so loud and boisterous that Eames doesn't notice the exact moment the laughter turns into heaving sobs.

Eames rushes across the room and pulls Arthur into his arms. "Darling," he murmurs. "Arthur. What is it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Arthur whispers, face pressed against Eames' neck. "I'm just thinking of the future."

*  
*  
*

Eames meets Marcus, an up-and-coming stock broker worried about his cutthroat competitors, at a café down the street from his house.

"So this can protect me?" Marcus asks as he sips his designer coffee. "Your dream magic can stop people from invading my brain?"

"Yes," Eames says.

Marcus grunts. "What if it doesn't work?”

"It will," Eames says, throat tightening. "I work with the best man in the industry."


End file.
